


The Court of Thieves

by catcryptid



Category: The Ascendance Series - Jennifer A. Nielsen
Genre: Betrayal, Bittersweet Ending, Peril, So many OCs, does anybody check the tags? im kinda using these to be a punk now, friends to enemies to skeptical acquaintances, from imogen and roden, in the face of danger rip, set 4 1/2 years after tst, soft angst, soft married life, split POV, the full cast is here for this one, yodeling phantoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catcryptid/pseuds/catcryptid
Summary: In the icy reaches of the north, borders become blurred as queens and bandits alike race to stop the infamous Thief Lords.
Relationships: Amarinda of Bultain/Tobias, Jaron Artolius Eckbert III/Imogen, everybody/danger
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. Snowfall

Trail’s End was completely different from Drylliad. The castle there was square and looked like a chess piece. 

The castle was so far to the north that there were images depicting Gelynian fairytales carved into some of the stone walls inside. There were still lines of demarcation to separate the nobility from commoners despite being out of style for decades. Trail’s End hadn’t seen a queen or king in years. 

And now the castle was housing both for a season.

It had been Imogen’s idea to spend a few weeks at Trail’s End. Jaron quickly jumped at the idea of taking leave from court, especially after an incident with the kitchens catching on fire at Drylliad. They left the dangers of court behind for quieter adventures, like stringing holly berries over doorways and playing silly games like hide-and-go-seek.

Trail’s End was not Drylliad, but the village was close and everything was clean, even if everything was devoid of color during the early winter season.

The sky was grey, the trees were grey, everything was grey.

Save for Imogen’s nose and cheeks, which were turning redder and redder with every passing moment. No matter how many times she pulled her scarf over her face, the cold never left her skin. She’d rather be tucked in by the fire, but she was needed by those she loved most.

They were out there somewhere. 

Depending on her.

Fresh snowflakes billowed through the air, heralding a new blizzard. 

Imogen hiked up her skirts as she plowed through the snow. A vague path guided her around massive snowdrifts, stamped down every so often by multiple pairs of boots. The path stompers had seemingly stepped in the same place to avoid getting their feet covered in ice.

“I’ll find them,” Imogen muttered to herself. She pulled down her scarf, and called out a name.

No answer.

She shuffled a little bit farther, “Jaron! Fink! Where are you!?”

A splash of bright red waved back and forth.

There was evidence of their destruction all around her, now that she’d taken a moment to look for it. Deep gouges dotted with twigs marred the snow. She stopped once she saw the results.

"Imogen!" Jaron pulled his scarf down from his face, his red cheeks making his brilliant eyes even brighter. 

"I told you I'd come," Imogen promised. She laughed as Jaron charged towards her, and swept her up in an embrace. "I hope I wasn't too late."

His smile was intoxicating. 

Contagious.

The grin spreading across Imogen’s face almost warmed her nose.

There were three sculptures made of snow. Crude sculptures. Icy towers made of three stacked snowballs of varying size, with the largest being on the bottom. Imogen wasn't sure what they were, but they did look a little like a man.

Jaron shook his head, and gestured to Fink. "Not at all, you're right on time. Did you bring, ah, the goods?"

"You mean these?"

"What perfect carrots," Jaron mused as he reached for the package Imogen brought with her. 

Fink stuck his head out from behind one of the sculptures, a red cap covered in snow stuffed on his head. "Those'll make excellent noses!"

"Indeed they will. Come on Imogen, the snowmen look better from the front."

"Ah, they're snowmen," she reached for Jaron's hand. "They're round men, don't you think?"

Just as Jaron promised, the snowmen did look better on their front sides. There were lines of black stones to represent eyes and a mouth, as well as little twigs shoved into the snowmen's middle representing the outline of a vest. Fink was on his tiptoes, jamming a carrot into the middle of a snowman's face. 

The light in Jaron's eyes was simmering; waiting to continue burning. 

He wanted recognition. 

Imogen tapped her chin, "I must say, I haven't seen this technique of sculpting since-"

"Since we visited the mad artist in Mendenwal?" Jaron asked, wrapping both of his arms around Imogen's shoulders as they both inspected the snowmen.

"Not quite," she said. "It's- it's riskier."

"But not too risky, right?"

"Oh it's a splendid method if I have to tell the truth! I'm truly impressed!"

"Does it look like it bears the weight of all human suffering!?" The fire in Jaron's unearthly green eyes exploded. He was playing along with the joke now. 

They could pretend to be artists for a moment. 

Imogen put her hands on her hips, and stared up at one of the noseless snowmen. The stones on the lower half of the snowman’s face turned up in a wide smile. For something made of ice, its smile was warm. Warm and inviting.

The snowmen had each other. They’d weather through the blizzard huddled together. Not that snowmen needed to fear snow.

It was a nice sentiment. It was nice to know that the snowman before her wouldn't be alone. 

They bore the weight of all human suffering together.

Her scarf came loose as she nodded. "Oh yes! Jaron, you're a brilliant sculptor!"

Warmth surged through her damp gloves as Jaron reached for both her hands, and spun in a circle. He twirled her, trapping her in his arms once again. 

Words came with power. 

Jaron was the type of person to crave the recognition words brought. It helped him. Imogen knew that it was her duty as his best friend to look for the tiny details he somehow got away with, and to encourage him to continue. 

He did the same for her. 

Fink shoved another carrot into the middle of the next snowman's face, muttering under his breath about being an unwilling chaperone. 

Poor Fink. 

"Are you both cold?" Imogen asked, trailing her hands over Jaron's forearms. "There's a warm fire and several warm drinks waiting back at the castle."

"Cold? Never, Fink and I must make an army of snowmen before we return to the- the-," Jaron heaved in a breath, and sneezed into his elbow. "It's a little chilly, I suppose."

“We’re not going back inside,” Fink argued, but he stood and brushed off his gloves. 

“Are you sure? The snowmen can handle themselves,” said Imogen. “They are made of ice after all.”

A familiar weight settled on her shoulders. Jaron was leaning on her once again. She snaked her arm around his waist, an unspoken promise joining the flying snowflakes that they wouldn’t try to wrestle each other into the snow. 

Not with Fink around, at least.

They formed a line behind Jaron. He shuffled through the falling snow to clear a path for Imogen and Fink, but threw an occasional snowball when the air grew too quiet. Imogen quickly began dodging the snowballs, and when that stopped working, grabbed onto Jaron’s waist to remind him how vulnerable he was.

Even the strongest soldiers were slightly ticklish.

Jaron started throwing the snowballs strictly at Fink once Imogen gave him a warning jab below his ribs.

The snow near the castle kitchens was slightly melted, signaling that something nice and warm was cooking inside. Scents of vanilla and cooking spices blasted through the blizzarding air. Three steaming muffins waited on the table for Imogen, Fink, and Jaron.

"Do you think our snowmen will survive the blizzard?" Fink asked as he pulled off his wintry boots. "I suppose we could always make more, just got attached to those ones. And it's also hard work pushing a snowball around, especially after it gets about knee high."

Imogen hung her damp cloak near the fire, and tapped her cheek. Jaron leaned in, and pressed a short kiss to her face before snatching up the largest muffin. She shrugged, "They might be a little covered, but I think they'll be okay."

"Building snowmen is fun in itself, and if they get buried, good. It'll keep you out of my way," said Jaron. 

"Why, so you and Imogen can do something better without me?"

"Exactly."

A kitchen door slammed shut, the cook stormed in with a basket of apples, and stormed out again. In the orange kitchen light, the cook bore a striking resemblance to various monsters in old Gelynian stories. 

Thank the Saints Jaron hadn't had the time to anger this cook like he'd done to the kitchen staff in Drylliad. 

Jaron sat down on a stool tucked near the table in the middle of the room, and motioned for Imogen to stand beside him. 

"I was talking to one of the squires," Fink bit into his bun. "They say there's a phantom that haunts this castle. And all of Trail's End."

"And what does this phantom do?" Asked Imogen. She set her hands on Jaron's shoulders, waiting for an answer. 

"They say that-"

"There's no such thing as phantoms," Jaron interrupted. "I heard this legend. It's not true."

Every so often, there were moments that Imogen couldn’t understand the laughter in Jaron’s voice. They were rare and she kept her thoughts to herself. 

Phantoms used to terrify her. They were the reason why she’d run to the well and back as a child when working in Bevin Conner’s household.

The dark didn’t frighten her; it was what lurked in the dark that made her skin crawl.

Even if Fink’s phantom was a myth like Jaron claimed, that didn’t mean there wasn't a different danger in the woods.

Fink jabbed a finger at Jaron, "This one _is_ true. The squires say that the phantom snatches people up at night to eat their souls, but only if they stray from the main road. I'm fairly certain that they mentioned that-"

"Ah, Imogen, how do you feel about taking an evening walk tonight through the snow?"

Imogen shook her head, "I'd rather not entertain legends about phantoms."

"Even though they're not real?"

"Love, if you entertain things like that, it invites them."

"Fine, I'll take Tobias."

Jaron, true to his word, dragged Tobias out of the warmth of the castle once he’d finished his pastry. They didn’t reappear for some time.

The blizzard continued into the evening. Shutters were closed on the lower levels as the snow rose. Imogen nestled into a large chair in the small front hall, a book balancing on her knees. Though the wind managed to creep through the occasional cracks in the stone walls, the roaring fire kept her mostly warm. Amarinda settled into the chair beside her.

“Good book?” Amarinda asked, her hands in her lap.

Not exactly. Imogen shrugged and held it out to Amarinda, “It’s a series of sonnets, but they’re mostly about death.”

“Eerie,” she said, flipping open the book to a random page. Amarinda squinted, “And disturbing. Where did you get this?”

“Renlyn recommended it. She’s going to be joining us soon, most likely with more macabre poetry.”

“Ah, I can’t wait to see what she’s gathered for us,” Amarinda grinned.

The poems, though dark and dreary, were still poems. Renlyn Karise, Imogen’s favorite lady-in-waiting, was quiet and reserved, but she caught on to the things other people enjoyed. 

Imogen loved poetry, and Renlyn did her best to provide. 

“I think once we’ve finished with all the books here, we’re going to travel a little farther north,” Imogen said, tucking the book beneath her arm after Amarinda handed it back. “There’s a cathedral near the Gelynian border that I’d like to see.”

Amarinda kicked off her heeled shoes, and leaned back in her chair, “I’d love to go. I think I know the cathedral you speak of. Greyfriers was the name, right?”

“That’s the one! I’ve heard stories about the bells and the cathedral itself. I hope the sky is clear when we go.”

“The mountains have notoriously bad weather.”

“Bad weather doesn’t scare me,” Imogen said with a smile. 

The main door rattled shut. Imogen leaned forwards, but couldn’t see who’d slammed the door. Her mind flickered back to the conversation she’d had with Jaron about phantoms. Specters. Restless spirits waiting for a moment to no longer be alone. 

She shivered. No harm could come to her in the castle. 

Where was Renlyn?

“Amarinda, do you-,” Imogen began, but the door handle to the hall rattled, and in stepped Renlyn with a short man by her side.

The wind howled, hurling snowflakes through the openings in the shutters. Imogen tightened her shawl around herself as she looked at the short man in his fur lined clothes. His beard puffed out of his face, rivaled only by his gargantuan nose. A pair of beady black eyes glinted beneath his hedge eyebrows.

She could see those greedy magpie eyes from where she sat by the fire. Imogen was no stranger to those who’d once been filled with ill intent.

But people changed. It wasn’t fair to the magpie-eyed man to instantly brand him as somebody not to be trusted.

“Sorry to disturb,” Renlyn dipped her head, firelight glinting off the Gelynian style hood she wore. “But this man here brings an important message.”

Imogen sat up straight, and nodded to the man. “Tell me your name.”

The magpie-eyed man was covered in powdery snow. He bowed low, and pulled off his long cap. “Your majesties, I hope you’ve found your stay in Trail’s End satisfactory, I hate to- I hate to be the one sharing this news, but it can’t be kept quiet any longer.” The crow-eyed man bowed again, but snapped back to his full height when he remembered to answer Imogen’s request. “I, ah, you may call me Nolan.”

“Any longer?” Amarinda arched an eyebrow. Her voice was filled with sympathetic concern, “You mean to tell us that your news has been happening for some time?”

Nolan shifted on his feet, “We try to accommodate visitors by keeping our business as our business.”

“And what kind of business do you speak of?” Imogen asked.

A log in the fireplace cracked and showered sparks through the air. It was almost loud enough to block the ever-howling wind. 

“The business of shades,” Nolan clutched his cap. “Trail’s End is a quiet village, your Majesty. We get by. We try not to anger those we cannot control, but with your blessing, we Trailblazers might be able to put the spirits of the forest to rest.”

With her blessing? Imogen rolled her shoulders back; Nolan’s words hung on her skin like used sink water. 

Sending restless spirits to rest was the work of priests and sisters of the holy book. 

“Take a seat Nolan, Renlyn,” said Imogen. She gestured to the other upholstered chairs near the fire. “We should discuss this before any decisions are made. I’m sure that King Jaron wouldn’t mind being included in this particular endeavor.”

She needed a moment to think of what she could say. 

There was a tugging in her heart towards appeasing the spirits Nolan feared. Imogen wanted to believe him. It made sense, what with the effects the Great War had all over Carthya. It made sense that there were those among the deceased wandering around in a fruitless quest for justice. 

How could the dead ever know that a war had been won?

But there was also a tugging in her mind towards assessing the situation. As a young maid working at Farthenwood, Imogen often had to retrieve water for washing. The well was deep in the surrounding woods, and taking a lantern meant she wouldn’t be able to carry her bucket with two hands to avoid spilling precious drops of water. She’d walked the path to the well on many a moonless night and never once dealt with anything not of this world. 

It was possible that somebody was using legends and shared fear to their advantage. 

It was possible that a bandit had hid behind the cover of a restless spirit in order to get away with robbing the villagers of Trail’s End. 

“Can you tell us about these shades?” Imogen motioned to one of the servants waiting near the door. She’d need a cup of tea to get through this conversation. 

Nolan tapped his toes together. “Ah, well, they come and go, but they’ve been present for the past several months. They make noises at night; sometimes children on the streets vanish. Beggar women, too. There was a noble lord passing through the area a few weeks ago. We found him not ten miles from town in his unmentionables, hanging by his feet from a tree. Everything was gone. All of it.”

Renlyn’s cheek twitched, but she remained silent. She folded her hands in her lap. Imogen resisted the urge to frown. 

“And what else has happened?” Amarinda’s gaze flickered from Renlyn to Imogen and back to Nolan.

“Odd things. Barrels and barrels of sour cabbage appear in the middle of the square,” he said. “Not quite a bad thing, but it is odd.”

“Do things go missing?”

“Every so often, yes. Mostly bottles of mead. The stronger the liquor, the higher the chance that it’ll vanish. We started leaving bottles of beeswine. They’d be gone before the night was over, and we’d hear even more of the sounds. More of the wailing.”

Waling. The frown struggling to break through Imogen’s placid face won the battle for a moment. Imogen quickly regained her calm expression, “What kinds of sounds? Is it like the wind?”

“Is it chanting names?” Renlyn asked. She shrugged after all eyes looked to her; she’d been silent for the majority of the conversation. “I’ve heard of a story like that once before an old battle.”

Nolan shook his head ever so slightly, “It’s- I can’t quite describe it. It’s loud, the sound carries for miles. And sometimes the cows listen. They’ll push their way out of stalls and corrals to answer the song of the spirits.”

“How often do the spirits sing?” Imogen tightened her grip on her shawl, however, the chill that settled around her wasn’t something that could be cured with a blanket or a mug of tea. 

A pair of shutters slammed open against the wall. Snow forced its way inside, only to melt as soon as it hit the stone floor. Nolan jumped. 

“Singing spirits,” Renlyn sat up a little straighter. “Perhaps they’re attempting to make a choir from beyond the grave.”

Imogen shot Renlyn a slight glare. 

“There are- there are multiple voices, yes,” Nolan nodded. “But the sounds- the singing, it’s far too deep to belong to any choir, holy or not. No, this phantom music is low and deep, like a man.”

Renlyn crossed her arms, and finally fell back in her chair. She had something to say, but had no intention of sharing it. Imogen wrinkled her nose, preparing herself for the conversation they’d all have once Nolan was out of earshot. 

The maid Imogen had sent away returned with a tray of teacups. She set the tray down, and quietly mentioned that Jaron and Tobias were raiding the kitchens before she slipped away. 

Nolan continued sharing his tales of the spirits and their strange behavior. He never raised his voice. Never stuttered. He knew exactly what he was speaking about. 

Nolan fully believed that there were spirits in Trail’s End. Spirits singing into the night, stealing beeswine, leaving behind gifts of sour cabbage. 

“Please, your Majesty, all we need is your permission to expel these spirits,” Nolan swung out of his chair, and bowed before Imogen. “We will not disturb you again should you choose to say no to our humble request."

Imogen sat a little straighter. She had to make a choice at that moment. It would be cruel to leave Nolan and his fellow villagers waiting for an answer. She didn’t look at Renlyn or Amarinda as she stood up and helped Nolan to his feet. 

“I have something better in mind,” Imogen said. “I will go into the village and see these occurrences for my own eyes. We will look for answers together.”  
  
  



	2. A Trio Degraded

"Devils in their lair, how can it be so cold?" Said Ayvar. Her complaints had grown louder the farther they got from Drylliad castle.

Roden didn't say anything, but pulled his long coat around him, almost regretting his offer to Ayvar. She'd been caught with her hand in somebody else's pocket, which was guaranteed a week in the dungeons. Instead, Roden made a deal. She'd sell out her fellow bandits and get her name completely cleared.

"Don't take this lightly," Roden had said. "Forgiveness is hard to come by."

Ayvar had been more than happy to comply while she'd been tucked away in a tower cell.

Though she wasn't so happy with her choice it seemed. Even a drafty tower was warmer than the frozen streets.

He'd suffer through it. Roden pulled the collar of his long blue coat up as high as he could.

Their path was already stamped down by several pairs of probably stolen boots. How kind of all the scum wandering into the vaults to have stomped through the snow so Roden and Ayvar didn't have to.

Large clouds blackened out the moon and stars. It was only a matter of time before more snow blanketed the cobblestone; before more snow poured into the rotting tunnels below the city.

The Vaults wasn't Roden's favorite place to be. It was moldy, and the constant stench of vile deeds only worsened when the weather grew damp. There were entrances all over the lower districts of Drylliad; it wasn't uncommon for a grandmother or younger sister to vanish without a trace, only to be found dead a year later when another person stumbled down the steps. They'd been built ages ago with the best intentions, but an outbreak of the plague soon rendered the Vaults useless to all.

Save those who used the cover of darkness to hide their wicked actions.

But the Vaults would soon be stamped out of existence. Jaron and the regents all agreed to seal up the tunnels.

No more murderers hiding in the dark, waiting for their next kill.

All Roden had to do was keep the peace until the Vaults were filled with cement in the summer.

It was much easier said than done.

"Have you brought light with you?" Ayvar asked, standing before a low arch in the alley wall beside her. She gestured to the few visible steps descending into the earth. "There might be a step or two missing."

As a matter of fact, he'd brought two lanterns, just in case. Roden held out a lantern and matches retrieved from the bag at his side. Ayvar lit the lantern, and descended into the Vaults.

Silence was a key part of their operation, which worked out well in Roden's favor. He had no intention of befriending Ayvar any more than he had to.

There was also a grueling common factor Roden tried his best to ignore.

Ayvar's lantern revealed hundreds of spider families. Insects, and the occasional rat, scurried away from the lantern light. Roden frowned. He'd thought of that rotten common factor he shared with Ayvar, and now he'd be thinking about it for the rest of the night.

He should've known this was a bad idea.

Faint voices bounced off of the tunnel walls. The stairs leveled out into a dirt path riddled with stagnant puddles. Ayvar looked back at Roden for a fleeting moment.

Forget it, Roden. Focus on what lies ahead.

Except Ayvar was ahead, which only made him think, which put him in a mood. Curse the Vaults and everyone who'd ever been inside to the Devils' lair.

The voices grew louder and Ayvar froze in place. She blew out the lantern, leaving the pair of them in stale darkness. Just up ahead to the right was the faint glow of a torch. Ayvar had held up her end of the bargain. She'd either led them to her fellow Faola, or dragged Roden into a trap.

Roden brushed past Ayvar. Her work was done. He could take the straggling bandits on his own.

The light belonged to a single handheld torch, which was flickering dangerously low. Roden stole a few glances at the torch's owners, it wouldn't be too difficult to attack. But they were speaking. Talking about something different from the usual plans to steal a horse. Roden paused, straining to listen. Ayvar crept up behind him. He wondered if she already knew about what her friends were discussing.

"There's nothing for us here," said one of the bandits. Roden recognized the voice. Ulspierre. Brother to Ayvar and an annoying pickpocket.

His claim was soon met with a cluster of arguments. Another boy spoke out, "We've got the tunnels. Carthya's a good place to be, much better than Gelyn, anyways. Or with the other bandits."

"Save the concerns for your Saints. They can't do anything where they're at," Ulspierre spat.

"Now I've got to start praying for your soul too, curses on your mother."

"You haven't been praying for my soul earlier? You're breaking my heart."

"Boys, boys," interrupted a third party. This voice belonged to a Gelynian. Probably a girl. Or a very very young boy. "Ulspierre's right, we need to be going north. Cap'n Harlowe's getting a little too close to home."

"We'd die going north!" Said the second thief.

A stone clattered across the floor. Roden jerked his head back to Ayvar, who whispered an apology. Ulspierre and the second thief didn't seem to notice the sudden sound.

Roden knew better than to hope that the three thieves hadn't heard the stone. He set his hand on his sword.

The third scoffed, "Easy solve for that one. Plenty other gangs are answering the call. We'll blend in with- Ulspierre?"

"Yes?"

"Where did your sister go?"

"She's up in a tower cell. Should be getting out by church day," Ulspierre said. "Why?"

"I don't think we're alone anymore!" Cried the third thief, charging out into the tunnel. Something gleamed in her hand.

A knife.

Instinctively, Roden lurched away from the torchlight. He sheathed his sword, opting instead to disarm the girl rather than risk getting his blade stuck in one of the tunnel crevices. She cursed as Ulspierre and the second thief raced out to join her.

"Did they force you to give us up Ayvar?" Ulspierre called. The third thief punched him in the gut, ordering him to shut up.

The thieves couldn't see him. Roden shifted his weight, he only had a few more moments to draft a plan. It was three on one. Several stones clattered; Ayvar was still in the tunnel.

Maybe the odds had shifted to three on two.

Roden's moment to plan was up. He barreled forwards, catching the second thief around the waist and hurling him directly at Ulspierre. The pair of thieves tumbled back into their dimly lit room. Roden turned to handle the third thief, but saw only an abandoned torch.

And a streak of red hair.

"Ayvar!" Ulspierre grunted as he pushed himself away from Roden and the second thief. "What are you doing?"

He didn't get an answer.

"We should've gone-," began the second thief, but Roden punched him hard, and locked an arm around the thief's neck.

With the second thief struggling to get free, Roden could focus on getting rid of Ulspierre too. Ayvar was nowhere to be seen; he hoped she was dealing with the third rogue.

"It's been a while, captain!" Ulspierre kept himself just out of Roden's reach, and bowed low.

Roden almost lost his grip on the second thief, but he jerked his knee up and collided with a squishy torso. The only thing keeping Ulspierre in that fight was Ayvar on one end of the tunnel and the midnight patrol outside of the Vaults. Roden needed to end the skirmish. And soon.

"You know how I feel about witty banter," Roden shot back, swinging around the second thief who wheezed a plea to get free.

Ulspierre drew a long, thin blade from his belt, "Then we'll fight with blades if words aren't your-"

A loud thump bounced off of the tunnel halls. Ulspierre's eyes went out of focus, his retort fizzling into nothingness as he fell to the ground. Behind him stood Ayvar. She shrugged when Roden gawked at her.

"He's always been a little too chatty," she said. Ayvar gestured with her torch to the seemingly endless tunnel. "I lost sight of the third thief and you looked like you needed help."

The second thief, who was still trapped in a headlock, tapped Roden's arm, "Please let me go."

"Thank you, I suppose," Roden kept his arm locked tight around the thief. "You took out Ulspierre with one blow."

"I'll teach you how if you'd like, but I have to ask you to let your friend go. He looks like he's turning purple."

"And if he makes a run for it?"

"I won't run, I promise!" Wheezed the thief. "Please sir, let me-!"

Roden let the second thief go, but drew his finger along his neck. The thief took a step back, but he remained near Ayvar and Roden.

"I don't suppose you'll stick me in a tower because I complied? The dungeons are terrible for your health this time of year," said the thief.

A reasonable request. Ulspierre and the second thief could fill up Ayvar's previous cell.

* * *

"Did I get any letters, Madame secretary?" Roden asked as he pushed open the door to his father's suite. "Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"

His niece, Havanila, grinned from where she sat on a plush couch near the fireplace. She should've been sleeping. Nila was barely eleven years old, still too young to be waiting up all night. The dim firelight cast shadows over her little face. It cast shadows over the desks and chairs.

The shadows looked like people.

Like the other thieves hiding deep within the Vaults. Roden rubbed his eyes. They were only shadows. He would've known if he'd been followed.

He couldn't deny that he did appreciate Nila waiting for him to return from his patrol. She patted the couch, motioning for him to sit beside her. "I suppose, but Papa said he wanted somebody to wait for you. He had business to attend to."

"What kind of business?"

"He got letters, but you didn't."

"That's completely unfair," Roden pulled off his long coat and gloves, leaving them to dry by the fireplace. When he pulled off his boots, Nila gagged and asked him when he'd last washed his socks. He calmly answered that he'd worn the same pair for the past year.

A smirk glanced across her face. Nila reached below the couch, and held up a dirt-stained piece of folded parchment. "You didn't get any letters, but you did get a note while you were away."

"Give it-," Roden reached for the note, but Nila held it out of his grasp.

"It's not what you're hoping for," she said. Nila sat a little taller, "Dear Captain, I hope this small note finds you in good health. I simply cannot forget the night that you took me dancing, and was wondering if- hey! It's better when I read them to you!"

His ears were burning. "That's none of your business."

"Is too."

"Is not."

"Is too!" Nila wrinkled her nose, but sat back against the couch. "I already read it. . . so I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore."

"And what did you think?" Roden skimmed over the note and tucked it into his pocket. He cursed himself for making an appearance at one of the few parties hosted at Drylliad. Notes like the one in his pocket had been appearing ever since.

Nila shrugged, "I dunno, boring, I guess. There's better things to be doing."

"I wholeheartedly agree," he said. He then gestured to the door leading to Nila's bedroom. "You should probably go to sleep before Father gets here."

"Or what? You'll tell on me?"

"Exactly."

"I'm not scared of-" she began. The handle turned. Nila vaulted over the couch; the door to her bedroom clicked shut just as Harlowe stepped in.

He'd never been one for casual splendor, but Harlowe kept a jerkin and trousers when he needed to dress the part of a regent. Harlowe took off his massive velvet coat, folded it, and set it gently on one of the stairs near the fire. There was weariness in every movement he made.

Harlowe arched an eyebrow, and gestured to Nila's shut door, "Was it something I said?"

Roden grinned, "Glad to see you're still in one piece."

"I suppose I still am," Harlowe said. He patted down his jerkin until he found what he was looking for. "A letter came in today that required immediate discussion."

"About what?"

"Information from our Bymarian informant."

That struck Roden's attention. He leaned forwards, and motioned for the letter. "May I read it, please?"

"Of course," nodded Harlowe.

The letter was still relatively clean. Roden recognized the writing; tall, looping letters. Very stylish.

But halfway down the page, the handwriting changed to poor spelling and harsh, jagged lines.

"The spy was intercepted," Roden said. "The information's been compromised."

Harlowe made his way over to a large cabinet in the corner and retrieved two crystal glasses and a jug. He popped the jug's cap off, "That's what I thought too, but the letter itself has nothing useful. All it mentions is a tea party west of Munsk."

"A tea party in Gelyn?"

"It's probably a code of sorts, the second half of the letter mentions that court will be held, but no mention of whose court it is."

"Then I suppose I will have to rendezvous with our informant myself." Roden held out his hand for one of the crystal glasses now filled with a glittering liquid. "Unless he's been genuinely compromised."

"Unfortunately, that's what appears to have happened, especially with the second half of the letter being written by somebody else."

"And the informant was alone?"

"He was passing information to Carthya and Bymar on his own, but he was traveling with various others. I wish I had more information for you, Roden, I do. The informant wasn't one of our citizens; there was only so much we were allowed to know without compromising his safety."

Roden read the letter again, wishing the words would change. He could only recognize so many code terms. The letter was short and to the point: There was a tea party happening west of Munsk, and court was going to be held.

What happened during tea parties? Why would somebody hold a tea party this late in the winter season?

Harlowe sat beside Roden, "I do know that the informant was using another name, though I suspect you knew that too."

He shook his head, "I can't say I'm well acquainted with the informants serving Bymar before Carthya. They help us in times of need, but their primary loyalty is to the Bymarian crown."

"He's commonly referred to as Jester," Harlowe said. He took a long sip from his own crystal cup. "Carthyan spies say he's regularly met up with another informant who has no name."

"And where did the letter come from?"

"A city named Whiterune, it's near Carthya's border with Gelyn. It's not far from Trail's End actually. Perhaps you could return with King Jaron and Queen Imogen should you choose to investigate the nature of this letter."

North. It seemed everything was calling for Roden to go north. He frowned as he recalled snippets from Ulspierre's conversation with the two other thieves. They'd wanted to go north too.

Perhaps they had information they were hiding.

"I'll have to discuss my leave," Roden scratched the back of his head. "I'd be able to ride out in a few days if I'm able to find somebody to fill my place here. I'd have to coordinate taking a few soldiers and sending a company out to keep an eye on Jaron."

It was a heavy burden, protecting Drylliad. That was one of the reasons Roden stayed behind.

He trusted Mott to keep Jaron, Imogen, and the others out of harm's way for a few weeks. Mott wasn't alone, either. Roden had sent Feall Cormeach, a Bymarian hero, to go to Trail's End as well. Together, Mott and Feall had years of combative experience waiting to be put to good use.

Finding somebody to keep the city safe in his absence was an entirely different story. It would be easier for Roden to remain at Drylliad and dispatch somebody else to Whiterune.

But there was something about the jagged handwriting and whispering bandits that filled his lungs with a desire to do something. Anything.

"I may have a few ideas as to who can fill my position during my ride to Whiterune," Roden said. "Corporal Derem has promise."

Harlowe grunted in agreement, and then leaned back against the couch in silence. His snores were almost silenced by the shifting embers.

Roden stared at the dimming fire, his head swimming with different ideas. He'd never heard of informants using terms like 'tea party' and 'court will be held'. It was a fact that rulers and nobles held court. It was a fact that tea parties were thrown by anyone who could spare the cups or the biscuits.

But why mention a tea party, and specify that it was west of Munsk? And why a name like Jester? That grabbed attention, the opposite of what informants were instructed to do.

He'd never been exceptionally good at figuring out puzzles. They were filled with little details that meant both nothing and everything at the same time.

It seemed that somebody had gifted him with a puzzle.

The desire to go north was enveloping his thoughts, blazing through his other commitments. He'd speak with Corporal Derem about keeping an eye on Drylliad while he rode up north with a few others. He'd search for Jester, and if he didn't find him, he'd ride to Trail's End and accompany Jaron back to Drylliad in time for the end of the year festivities.

There was something else, too. A friend he knew. A friend he hadn't seen for some time. They'd gone to the north once.

Maybe he'd see them there, at Whiterune.

"Father, the couch isn't the best place to doze off," Roden said, nudging Harlowe awake. "Get to bed."

"I suppose-," Harlowe yawned. "You're right. I'll speak to you in the morning?"

"I'd appreciate that."

Harlowe patted Roden's shoulder, and left for his chamber. The door thudded shut, leaving Roden alone with his thoughts and the ever-shifting embers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Cat's sister, Quill! Be sure to bookmark and leave a review


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